Shanghai (73 page)

“Good,” said the Red Pole. Then he added, “Always ask for an accounting, young sir.”

“Yes, very good. Yes, and thank you. Can I buy you a drink?” the young carver asked.

“No,” the Triad member responded, “but I'll buy you one. What are you drinking?”

And so began a friendship that the young carver felt he desperately needed. Here was someone to tell his problems to. And, damn it to hell, his father was bound to find out about the broken jade tomorrow.

“And what will he do then?”

“Throw a fit. Cut me into pieces and throw me in the wok. Whatever he wants he can do.”

The night continued that way, and the Red Pole was beginning to think that this was nothing more than a stupid boy who hated his father, when all of a sudden, just before the blue light of morning slid in the window, the boy said, “I know his secret. I know it.”

And what exactly would that secret be?
the Red Pole wondered. But he did not ask. He knew that someone who offers to tell a secret once will always offer a second time.

As the two men got up from the table in the dawning light, another man watched carefully from the shadows. This man had a cobra carved into his back, the hood of which was now filling with blood. The Assassin had been a trusted member of Tu's personal bodyguard since he'd murdered the
Fan Kuei
on the great Indiaman sailing ship, and he had learned much in that time. But nothing he had learned concerned him so deeply as the approach of Gangster Tu's disgraced Red Pole to the Carver's eldest son.

She thought he looked terrible. She'd noticed his decline more in the past few years, now that she was able to see him only every other new moon—and he had missed several of their assigned meetings. She knew little of what he did, but whatever it was it had taken its toll on him. He had also grown increasingly critical of the martial arts progress of his eldest son, to the point that the boy dreaded the arrival home of his father. And she'd noticed her husband being more and more encouraging to their younger son. The older boy hadn't begun his training until his sixth year, but her husband had started their younger son on his third birthday. And the younger boy was clearly more adept than his older brother.

But it was her husband that most concerned her. One time he'd returned with a barely healed cut across his
chest. Another he had lost a finger on his right hand. His response to her queries about both was to slough off her concern with a scowl—clearly a warning for her to probe no deeper. And she didn't probe.

When they were finally alone, on their sleeping platform above the goats, he was an almost indifferent lover; he performed, but without much zeal. And there was the calling out in his sleep after they brought on the clouds and rain. Not shrieks or cries, but clear calls. Calls to various men to do various things. She never asked exactly who the men were or what they were meant to do.

In the mornings he was always up before her and out in the marsh with the two boys. Often he returned angry with the older boy. Once he hit him. The younger boy he praised and often took out near sunset for a second session.

“I hate him!” her older son shouted at her.

“Say no such things. He is your father.”

“He hates me.”

“No. No, he is your father and he wants you to succeed so you can follow in his footsteps.”

“Doing what? Murdering collaborators?”

She was silent. It had crossed her mind that her husband could well be the murderer loose on the streets of Shanghai. He certainly had the skills necessary to avoid the police for all that time.

“Or, Mother, is he just a stupid gangster?”

She quickly crossed to him and put her hand over his mouth. There were tears in her eyes as she said, “Your father is a great man on a great and honourable mission. You must not—”

“If he's not a murderer or a gangster, then what is he?” She actually didn't know the answer to that question. She knew he was a master martial artist, and
the cobra carved on his back was surely a sign that he was important in some organization. For a long time she had thought him a Triad member, but when she'd accused him he had corrected her sternly.

“Never. Never would I use my skill for fools like that. You have to trust me. I have a great obligation to the Middle Kingdom, to the city at the Bend in the River, that makes me associate with these evil men. But I am not one of them.”

She paraphrased that to her older son, whose response was, understandably, “And you believe him?”

She put her arms around him and drew him to her breast as she said, “I do,” while in her mind she continued the thought with,
What else can I do?

—

Loa Wei Fen laughed as his younger son split the piece of wood cleanly with a simple heel kick. The boy was talented and loved the work. He took a stance and Loa Wei Fen took a defensive posture in opposition to him. Then the boy challenged, “Hit me, Father.” Loa Wei Fen smiled and lashed out.

The boy sidestepped the blow and came back at his father's legs.

Loa Wei Fen parried his son's attack, then somersaulted over the boy. But the moment he landed his son was on him—only Loa Wei Fen's superior strength stopped the boy's attack.

The boy squealed with delight as his father lifted him high in the air, then threw him over his shoulder like a bag of rice and ran toward home.

—

Later that night he spoke to two of the men he had trained previously and outlined exactly what he wanted them to teach the boys in his absence. Then he went to the boys' mattress and talked softly to his sons about their duty to the Black-Haired people and how much he loved them, and also that he had to leave the next day.

The older boy turned away from his father, but the younger one crawled into his lap and showed him his left hand. The hand was bloody and scabbed.

“What is this?”

“I've carved a cobra on my hand like you have on your back.”

Loa Wei Fen reached out and cleaned away the scabs. He was surprised that the boy didn't wince. Then he wiped away the blood with his sleeve—and there, although not elegant, was clearly a coiled cobra, its hood spread and mouth open, ready to strike.

Loa Wei Fen patted the boy on the head, then turned him over and said, “Sleep.” He didn't bother saying the rest of what was in his mind:
An assassin must take rest when he can find it.

That night he slept with his wife but refrained from ejaculating since he was now convinced that he had sired a successor to his obligation in the Ivory Compact. She noticed, and at first thought he no longer cared for her, and when she said as much he denied it vehemently.

“Then what?”

“Our youngest will follow me.”

“And our oldest son?”

“He will have to make his own way, but I will not have him trained any further. There is no need. And if he learns more I will have to choose between the two, as my ancestor did to start our line as the Head of the
Guild of Assassins. I won't take his life to make way for his brother. But he must accept. He must—and you must make him—or his death will be on your head. Now, help me collect my clothing. I leave before the moon sets.”

And even as the moon set the young Assassin-to-be had the most extraordinary dream. He was in a great city, but not Shanghai. And there was terror all around him. Chinese everywhere, slaughtered. And he slept with his eyes open, while his men awaited his orders. Even in his sleep, he took a deep breath and readied himself for the terrible task ahead.

The opening of the door at the far end of the former stable drew Gangster Tu's attention. To his surprise, the Red Pole he had disgraced onboard the Indiaman sailing ship strode into the gloom of the barn followed closely by two of his bodyguards, who threw the man to his knees.

Tu stood, as imperial as a Manchu Emperor standing on his throne dais. The disgraced Red Pole responded accordingly by performing the full prescribed kowtow.

Tu allowed him to finish the entire ritual and then stay in the prostrate position at the end of the formality for over a minute before he shouted, “What?”

The man kept his head on the ground and began to tell of a young man he had met two weeks before at a bar.

Tu was about to tell the guards to get him out of his presence when the words
carver
and
tusk
slid from the man's mouth.

Tu quickly shouted, “Enough,” then sent the guards away with a curt wave of his hand and an order that no one was to interrupt his discussion with his “wayward Red Pole.”

Once the guards were gone, Tu crossed to a side table inlaid with designs in mother-of-pearl that sat against a near wall. With a key he opened the panels of the cabinet to reveal a display of fine European liquors to rival any such array anywhere in the world. “A drink, perhaps?” he suggested. He turned and was surprised to see that the man still had his eyes to the ground and his forehead pressed hard against the cold floor.

Tu shrugged his shoulders, thinking that perhaps he would leave the man there permanently. Then he decided against it. “You may rise,” he said.

The man stood slowly but kept his eyes averted.

Tu poured himself a measure of fine Irish whisky, then said, “You were saying something about a carver's son and a tusk?” After a few minutes Tu had the basics and told the man, “Bring this boy to me this evening.”

“Here?” the Red Pole asked.

“No. Not here. To my home.”

“Yes, sir. But it might be late. He doesn't leave the workshop until after sundown.”

“Fine. I'll be in my home from sundown onward, and I'll expect you to bring the boy to me there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without fail!” Tu shouted, just to remind the Red Pole that there were more disastrous things that could
happen to a member of the Tong of the Righteous Hand than to be publicly disgraced.

—

Later that night the young carver followed his new friend, the Red Pole, down the dark streets of the Old City. They crossed Fang Bang Lu near the Temple of the City God, then headed toward the old waterfront. He was surprised when his friend tightened his grip around his shoulder and said, in a harsher voice than the younger man had heard from him before, “I have someone who is anxious to meet you and hear your stories.”

When they entered the large house off the alley in the north end of the Old City the young carver was amazed by the luxury, both European and Chinese, that suddenly surrounded him. As he was walked deeper into the large house, however, the decoration became more and more exclusively Chinese. He recognized a jade sculpture of a warrior on horseback slashing at a snake rising from the ground and a shiver went through him. He had helped polish that figure, and his father had grabbed it away from him with a sharp remark to the effect that at least he hadn't broken it … yet.

The young carver's friend opened a large door and then motioned that he should enter. The older man would not meet his eyes. The young carver took a step into the room and was surprised to hear the door slam shut behind him.

He stood alone in the room and waited, not knowing what he was waiting for.

Then a hidden panel behind the large desk opened and a grotesque-looking man stepped into the room.

The young carver had never seen him before, but he knew that he was in the presence of Big-Eared Tu, Gangster Tu, perhaps the second most powerful Asian in all of Shanghai—certainly the most dangerous.

He didn't know what to do, so he did nothing.

The gangster took a few steps toward him, then smiled. His teeth were surprisingly small and pointy.

“I …” the young carver tried to begin, indicating the closed door behind him.

“You what?” replied the gangster, his voice a sibilant whisper.

“Nothing, sir.” He felt as though he should bow, or something, but didn't know if that was appropriate. Then suddenly he didn't care if it was appropriate or not, and fell to his knees and placed his forehead against the ground.

He heard something scrape against the polished hardwood boards of the floor and slowly realized that the gangster was pulling a chair up beside him. He opened his eyes and saw the bottom of one of the legs of a peasant's three-legged bamboo stool just at the edge of his vision. The common stool seemed out of place amidst the luxury of the room.

“My Red Pole tells me that you know a great deal about carving. True?”

“Some, your honour.”

“You make trinkets for the wealthy Round Eyes, then?”

“Never, never for them.”

“You never work for them?”

“No.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“There is no reason, sir.”

“Do you know who I am?” Tu asked.

“Yes, sir.” The boy's voice was barely a whisper. Then the boy had an inspiration. A way to get back at his father. “I want to work for you, sir.”

Tu smiled. “What can you do for me?” he asked.

“Whatever is necessary.”

“Are you a fighter? Can you build munitions? Can you blow up a train?”

“No, but my father has something that may be very powerful.”

“Ah, and what does your father have?” he asked, careful that his words not betray his excitement.

“The secret to the future of Shanghai, I think,” the boy blurted out.

“Your father carves the secret to the future of Shanghai?” Tu asked as simply as he could manage.

“No. But I think he has the First Emperor's Narwhal Tusk. No, it's true, I saw it. I thought, like everyone else, that it was just a fairy tale. A myth. But I think it's true. I think my father has the First Emperor's Narwhal Tusk.”

Tu reached down and put a cold finger on the back of the young man's neck. He felt the warmth of the young carver's blood only a moment beneath the silky skin. He lifted his finger and asked, “And where would this Tusk be at this moment?”